


suggestion.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Class Differences, Complicated Relationships, Dubious Ethics, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Massage, Power Imbalance, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 17:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17512985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Drumknott makes an ill-advised suggestion.





	suggestion.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote [this prompt](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/316.html?thread=11068#cmt11068) on the prompt meme and like?? I just keep thinking about the idea, honestly, but then I thought about _this_ , so here.

 Drumknott hesitates in the doorway as he enters the Oblong Office, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Lord Vetinari is lying on the low couch to the very edge of the room, a damp cloth over his eyes, and Drumknott had already drawn the blinds when Lord Vetinari had begun rubbing absently at one side of his temple earlier that morning, and pinching the bridge of his nose more freely than usual throughout the day.

It is no wonder, really.

All this business with the Thieves’ Guild would give _anyone_ a headache, and Drumknott doesn’t believe his lordship has been getting as much sleep as he ought recently, which no doubt helps not at all.

Moving forward, Drumknott gently sets the tray down on the table next to his lordship, and he inhales the soft steam of the tea, which he makes with just a small hint of ginger. It isn’t for everyone, but Drumknott likes it this way, and so too does Lord Vetinari.

He takes a moment, examining Lord Vetinari where he lies on his back against the cushioned arm of the chaise long, Wuffles sprawled on the floor beside it.

“I do not have time for this, Drumknott,” Vetinari mutters.

“Nonetheless, my lord,” Drumknott says helplessly. It is… _distressing_ , to see his lordship in pain. In the face of a blinding headache – a happenstance that ails him once in a while, and prevents him from adequately concentrating on the texts he scans, with their tightly scrawled little letters, their complex ciphers. When he is pain, Vetinari prefers to be alone as much as possible, refusing all visitors, and often rescheduling meetings, but Drumknott never seems to register in his complaints, when he says he would be alone.

Drumknott is here regardless, scarcely registering as another person, an irritation…

“My lord,” he murmurs quietly.

“Mm?”

“I could…” Drumknott trails off, and the silence hangs thick in the air between them, creating an unnaturally stiff tension.

He can see Vetinari’s mouth, twisted into its usual thin line, and then Lord Vetinari very slowly peels the cool cloth from over his eyes, which flit to Drumknott. Their steely glare make Drumknott inhale sharply through his nose, and he shifts slightly in his seat. “You _could_ …?” Vetinari prompts, his voice cold and quiet where they cut through the air.

Drumknott glances at Lord Vetinari’s hands.

They are very skilled hands, that much is true. The fingers long and slender, the palms neatly muscled and devoid of scars, his hands are capable of a great deal. Drumknott has watched them play instruments, watched them juggle or catch things from the air, watched them move so fast as to vanish coins or even blades, has seen them snap necks, even…

His own hands, in comparison, are nothing special. His hands are smaller than Vetinari’s, their joints neat but square: there is a lacking artistry, an understanding that his fingers are devoid of grace. They are clerk’s hands, sensible and quick, littered with little callouses and cuts: unlike Vetinari’s hands, which are always comfortably warm[1], his hands, cursed by somewhat ill circulation, are usually rather cold.

Perhaps, he had thought, but no, that was _foolish_ of him.

“Would you like me to do anything for you, my lord?” Drumknott asks. “I could go downstairs and—”

“I would _like_ you, Drumknott, to finish your sentences.” His lordship’s voice is steel-sharp: Drumknott can see the muscles tensing in his jaw.

“I was merely going to suggest,” Drumknott says, “that I massage your temples.”

The stunned expression in Vetinari’s eyes lasts only for a moment, the flicker of surprise showing not even for a second before it is neatly filed away, hidden behind a mask of neutrality. “ _Indeed_?” he asks, his tone full of quiet fury, and Drumknott leans away on instinct. “What next, Drumknott? Will you hold my hand through difficult appointments? Undress me for my bedclothes? Lay chocolates on my pillow?”

“Next, my lord, I was thinking we would begin on the minutes from the Assassins’ Guild meeting.” Drumknott feels shame burn on his cheeks as Vetinari scowls at him, and he suppresses the urge to turn away, or to rush from the Oblong Office. “My apologies, my lord: I did not mean to overstep. I merely dislike to see you in pain, that’s all.”

Vetinari stares at him, for one long moment, and Drumknott wishes the ground would swallow him whole, wishes he could just crumble into _dust_ , rather than withstand that stare. “I see,” he says icily, and returns the compress to his eyes. “Get the minutes, Drumknott.”

“Yes, my lord. Sorry, my lord,” Drumknott mutters, and he feels the flush creep down his neck as he moves for the minutes, taking some paper for his notes as he does so.

\--

Vetinari’s head _throbs_.

He is not so foolish as to permit such a flagrant _ignorance_ of their respective positions, of the professionalism of one figure and the next, to have Drumknott _touch_ him, but—

“ _I merely dislike to see you in pain, that’s all,_ ” and so quietly earnest, so ringing with _truth_. No ulterior motive, nothing but embarrassment at having offered, but uncertainty at overstepping his bounds, and overstepping them regardless, that he might alleviate the Patrician’s aching head.

The very thought of gentle hands soothing the ringing pain in his head, even Drumknott’s hands, is too much of a temptation to acquiesce.

But he thinks about it. He thinks about Drumknott’s hands, cool and dry, distracting him from the pain in his head, and equally, he thinks about the young man’s idiotic fancies, thinking of the Patrician in his idle moments, as if he is an object of _any_ man’s fantasy[2].

He withstands the headache. He has withstood a thousand before.

 

[1] Not that Drumknott _takes note_ of these things, merely that this has come to his attention when Lord Vetinari has adjusted elements of his wardrobe or brushed his hand in taking a document from him.

[2] Barring, of course, the natural fantasy of Havelock Vetinari dead or dismembered in some way.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open.
> 
> I run a [Discworld Comm](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/), and there's also [a Discord right here.](https://discord.gg/b8Z3ThH)


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